The line you quote is the LAST line.I'm afraid I can only remember the first verse but I'll try to look up the rest for you. It may also jog someone else's memory...

It was Christmas Day in the workhouse The Eunuchs were sitting in pairs; Watching the Vestal Virgins combing their pubic hairs. When a voice from down the chimney went echoing round the walls, saying: "What do you want for Christmas?" And the Eunuchs all answered "Balls!"

It was Christmas day in the workhouse The snow was raining fast A bare-footed kid with clogs on Came slowly whizzing past He turned a straight crooked corner To see a dead donkey die Pulled out his gun to stab it And it punched him one in the eye

My Nan used to sing a version of this to us when we were kids, only one verse I can remember though: It was Christmas day in the work house, the snow was raining fast, a barefoot girl with clogs on stood sitting on the grass. I think there was more but not like Dave the Gnome's version

It was christmas in the workhouse the snow was raining fast a bear footed man with clogs on came slowly whizzing past he turned around a straight crooked corner to see a dead donkey die he pulled out his gun to stab him the donkey spit in his eye next day he went to the pictures he had a front seat at the back he fell from the floor to the gallery and broke a front bone in his back a lady gave hin an orange he ate it and gave it her back it was xmas in the workhouse the snow was raining fast

It was Christmas Day in the workhouse The one day of the year The paupers hearts were happy Their bellies full of beer Then in strode the Workhouse Master Within those stony walls He cried: 'A Merry Christmas' The paupers anwered 'Balls' This enraged the Workhouse Master Who swore by all his gods You'll have no Christmas pudding You load of rotten sods Then up stood one old pauper His face as bold as brass 'We don't want your Christmas pudding You can stuff it up your arse'.

Her's the version I knew: It was Christmas Day in the cookhouse The walls were grim & bare The sergeant cook was serving duff To all the gunners there

Up stepped one smart young gunner The bravest of them all He hit the sergeant with the duff Said we don't want this F*** ing stuff Cos beer is best Beer is strong Puts some muscle on your old ding dong Beer builds boony babies And beer has stood the test What was it Adam said to Eve Beer is best

christmas day in the workhouse the rain was snowing fast a bare footed man with clogs on stood sitting in the grass went to the pictures tomorrow bought a front seat at the back bought a plain cake with currents in ate it then took it them back :)

It's funny my Dad and I were just reciting the version he was taught and passed on to my brother and me 30 years ago.

Twas Christmas In the workhouse The pudding was piping hot It was for the old age pensioners The greedy F***in lot. In strolled the workhouse master who surveyed the grimy walls, turned to the old age pensioners and bellowed Merry Xmas one and all. One sprightly old age pensioner with balls as bold as brass shouted we don't want your xmas pudding Stick it up your Arse

'Twas Christmas day in the workhouse, and the walls were whitewashed black along came father christmas with his sack upon his back. Up spake one bold rascal with a voice as bold as brass I don't want your christmas pudding........... stick it on the next man's plate.

I have to say it actually scans better than what MAY have been the original version

My nan used to say funny sayings that her dad used to say, this one typed by larly is exactly what she used to say

It was christmas in the workhouse the snow was raining fast a bear footed man with clogs on came slowly whizzing past he turned around a straight crooked corner to see a dead donkey die he pulled out his gun to stab him the donkey spit in his eye next day he went to the pictures he had a front seat at the back he fell from the floor to the gallery and broke a front bone in his back a lady gave hin an orange he ate it and gave it her back it was xmas in the workhouse the snow was raining fast

she also used to say a saying about it was midnight on the ocean, not a streetcar was insight...... classic

What I remember from my English childhood. Twas Christmas Eve in the workhouse, the happiest night of the year. Men's hearts were full of gladness and their bellies full of beer. In walked the workhouse master, strolling throught the halls. To wish them a Merry Christmas when one old bugger shouts BALLS. This vexed the workhouse master who swore by all the gods. You shall have no Christmas pudding you dirty rotten sods. Up spake a man from Wigan, his voice as bold as brass. We don't want your Christmas pudding. You can stick it up your arse.

It was Christmas day in the workhouse The snow was raining fast A bare-footed girl with clogs on Sat laying on the grass In came the Chief Head warder You'll get no Christmas pud You b***dy, hump-backed b****r I never said you would She ran out into the rain But all in vain They shoved down the s**thouse And pulled the chain!

I suppose that my dad cleaned it up a little and over the years the rest of the verses have been forgotten.

The verses above are actually a parody of the original poem of the same name.

The author George Robert Sims was a highly respected crusading journalist of the time as well as a feted dramatist and he wrote this piece in 1881 to draw attention to the appalling conditions of the London slums and the poor law workhouses.

Christmas Day in the Workhouse

It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse, And the cold bare walls are bright With garlands of green and holly, And the place is a pleasant sight: For with clean-washed hands and faces, In a long and hungry line The paupers sit at the tables For this is the hour they dine. And the guardians and their ladies, Although the wind is east, Have come in their furs and wrappers, To watch their charges feast; To smile and be condescending, Put pudding on pauper plates, To be hosts at the workhouse banquet They've paid for — with their rates.

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's" So long as they fill their stomachs, What matter it whence it comes? But one of the old men mutters, And pushes his plate aside: "Great God!" he cries; "but it chokes me! For this is the day she died."

The guardians gazed in horror, The master's face went white; "Did a pauper refuse the pudding?" Could their ears believe aright? Then the ladies clutched their husbands, Thinking the man would die, Struck by a bolt, or something, By the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment, Then rose 'mid a silence grim, For the others had ceased to chatter And trembled in every limb. He looked at the guardians' ladies, Then, eyeing their lords, he said, "I eat not the food of villains Whose hands are foul and red:

"Whose victims cry for vengeance From their dank, unhallowed graves." "He's drunk!" said the workhouse master, "Or else he's mad and raves." "Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper, "But only a hunted beast, Who, torn by the hounds and mangled, Declines the vulture's feast.

"Keep your hands off me, curse you! Hear me right out to the end. You come here to see how paupers The season of Christmas spend. You come here to watch us feeding, As they watch the captured beast. Hear why a penniless pauper Spits on your paltry feast.

"Do you think I will take your bounty, And let you smile and think You're doing a noble action With the parish's meat and drink? Where's my wife, you traitors — The poor old wife you slew? Yes, by the God above us, My Nance was killed by you!

"Last winter my wife lay dying, Starved in a filthy den; I had never been to the parish, — I came to the parish then. I swallowed my pride in coming, For, ere the ruin came, I held up my head as a trader, And I bore a spotless name.

"I came to the parish, craving Break for a starving wife, Bread for the woman who'd loved me Through fifty years of life; And what do you think they told me, Mocking my awful grief? That 'the House' was open to us, But they wouldn't give 'out relief.'

"I slunk to the filthy alley — 'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve — And the bakers' shops were open, Tempting a man to thieve; But I clenched my fists together, Holding my head awry, So I came to her empty-handed And mournfully told her why.

"Then I told her 'the House' was open; She had heard of the ways of that, For her bloodless cheeks went crimson, And up in her rags she sat, Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John, We've never had one apart; I think I can bear the hunger, — The other would break my heart.'

"All through that eve I watched her, Holding her hand in mine, Praying the Lord, and weeping, Till my lips were salt as brine. I asked her once if she hungered, And as she answered 'No,' The moon shone in at the window Set in a wreath of snow.

"Then the room was bathed in glory, And I saw in my darling's eyes The far-away look of wonder That comes when the spirit flies; And her lips were parched and parted, And her reason came and went, For she raved of our home in Devon, Where our happiest years were spent.

"And the accents long forgotten, Came back to the tongue once more, For she talked like the country lassie I woo'd by the Devon shore. Then she rose to her feet and trembled, And fell on the rags and moaned, And, 'Give me a crust — I'm famished — For the love of God!' she groaned.

"I rushed from the room like a madman, And flew to the workhouse gate, Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!' And the answer came, 'Too late.' They drove me away with curses; Then I fought with a dog in the street, And tore from the mongrel's clutches A crust he was trying to eat.

"Back, through the filthy by-lanes! Back, through the trampled slush! Up to the crazy garret, Wrapped in an awful hush. My heart sank down at the threshold, And I paused with a sudden thrill, For there in the silv'ry moonlight My Nance lay, cold and still.

"Up to the blackened ceiling The sunken eyes were cast — I knew on those lips all bloodless My name had been the last; She'd called for her absent husband — O God! had I but known! — Had called in vain, and in anguish Had died in that den — alone.

"Yes, there, in a land of plenty, Lay a loving woman dead, Cruelly starved and murdered For a loaf of the parish bread. At yonder gate, last Christmas, I craved for a human life. You, who would feast us paupers, What of my murdered wife!

. . . . . . . .

"There, get ye gone to your dinners; Don't mind me in the least; Think of the happy paupers Eating your Christmas feast; And when you recount their blessings In your smug parochial way, Say what you did for me, too, Only last Christmas Day."

It was Christmas Day in the workhouse, The happiest day of the year, Their cheeks were red and rosy, Their bellies full of beer, Then up stepped little Charlie, His face as bold as brass, Saying "We don't want your Christmas Duff, so shove it up your arse".

Twas Christmas Day in the workhouse And behind those grim grey walls The warder was taking the roll call When somebody shouted out "Balls!" "I'll give you balls, you bugger, You mean ungrateful sod You'll get no Christmas pudding And you'll spend the day in quad!" Up spoke the brave old pauper His voice as bold as brass - "Don't want no christmas pudding You can shove it up your arse!"

It was Christmas day in the cookhouse, The happiest day of the year. Men's hearts were full of gladness And theirs bellies full of beer, When up stood Private Walters His face as bold as brass Saying, "D'you know what y'can do with ya Christmas puddin." Y'can stick it up y'... Tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.

It was Christmas in the harem, All the eunuchs were standing round With hundreds of beautiful women Stretched out on the ground. When in strode the big bold Sultan And gazed round his marble halls Saying "what would you like for Christmas boys?" Andthe eunuchs answered Tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.

I think George Sims' Victorian poem, as repro'd above by Charley Noble 31 Jul 10 5.38, a most moving work. I consider it a great shame that it has been so widely parodied and disgracefully travestied. I know all about the tradition of parody and humour & all that; but there are limits. Those posting early on this thread & knowing only those ~ one thing. But how anyone can go on posting these unfunny parodies of an accomplished [tho now admittedly perhaps a bit dated] work about such intolerable misfortune & grief is entirely beyond my comprehension. FOR SHAME!

There is a book called 'Prepare To Shed Them Now' which contains all George R Sims' dramatic monologues. There are some which I can hardly bear to read. One concerns a man who tries to drown his dog as he can't afford the new Dog Licence. But the dog survives, and later saves his master who falls into the canal. Another is about a starving, homeless boy and his sister, who promises he will see angels when he dies. He wakes up in a hospital bed and thinks the nurses are the heavenly host. I expect more sophisticated folk will laugh at these things, but I find them almost unbearably moving. I also like Victorian art which depicts sad scenes that tell a story. I'm a sucker for pathos!